So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2) Page 8

Where had she gone?

  Then he knew.

  McKay descended the stairs and let himself out. He crossed back to the church, skirted around to the rear, and the small graveyard on the other side. Only the wealthiest families could afford a burial here. The Garricks were one such family, three generations buried in their plot.

  Roberta sat on the low marble wall that surrounded the plot, one hand resting in the gravel, smooth white stones between her long fingers. Two headstones at the top of the grave, one for Mr Garrick’s grandparents and parents, the inscription updated over a span of thirty years.

  The other headstone bore the name Erin Susan Garrick, the dates only twenty-two months apart: our cherished daughter, taken into the Lord’s arms where we will see her again.

  McKay slowed his step as he approached, his shoes crunching the loose stones on the concrete path. She heard him, clearly, but did not lift her head to acknowledge his presence. He stopped beside her, considered lowering himself down to sit next to her, decided against it.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She sighed and said, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I was worried when I didn’t find you in the house.’

  She kept her eyes on the grave. ‘Do I need permission to go out?’

  ‘That policewoman was here.’

  Now she looked up. ‘Flanagan? What did she want?’

  ‘Follow-up questions.’

  Roberta got to her feet. ‘What did she ask?’

  ‘About you and Mr Garrick,’ McKay said. ‘About how long I’ve known you, about the accident, about Erin.’

  Roberta flinched at her daughter’s name.

  McKay swallowed and said, ‘She suspects.’

  ‘No she doesn’t,’ Roberta said too quickly, shaking her head. ‘Why would she? What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing specific. But the questions, they seemed to be leading somewhere.’

  She reached for him, grabbed a fistful of sweater. ‘Leading where? Tell me exactly what she said.’

  He searched his memory, seeking words and intents. His mind scrambled through the fragments, trying to piece them together.

  ‘I . . . I don’t remember, not exactly.’

  ‘Think!’ She pushed and pulled him. ‘What did she say?’

  McKay staggered to one side, shuffled his feet for balance. Fear threatened to blot out his higher mind entirely.

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t remember, I can’t think, I can’t . . .’

  Roberta let go of his sweater and said, ‘All right, calm down.’

  ‘What’ll we do?’ he asked, his throat tightening, his voice rising. ‘What’ll we do? It’s not just her, it’s the other police, they’re going around the village, asking questions.’

  She placed her palm, still cool from the gravel, on his cheek. ‘Shut up and calm down.’

  ‘What if she—’

  ‘Shut. Up.’ Her fingers moved from his cheek to the side of his neck, warmer now, the heat cutting through the clamour in his mind. ‘Calm down. Are you calm?’

  She spoke as if he were a child, and in truth, wasn’t he? Held here in her palm, he was an infant, blind and helpless, mewling for her succour. And she gave it to him. She reached her arms up and around his neck, drew her body close to his, her nose and mouth seeking the hollow between his jaw and his shoulder. He had no choice but to wrap his arms around her waist, lose himself in her embrace.

  ‘Be strong,’ she said, her voice low, her breath rippling across his skin. ‘Remember everything we talked about. Everything we’re going to have together.’

  ‘Together,’ he said. ‘You promised. Together.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, releasing herself from his arms, bringing her hands to his face. ‘And I keep my promises.’

  15

  Flanagan knocked on the door of DSI Purdy’s office and opened it without waiting for permission. She leaned in and saw him at his desk, the telephone handset pressed to his ear. He raised his hand and beckoned her to enter.

  ‘I understand that,’ he said into the mouthpiece.

  Flanagan took the seat opposite him.

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘I do understand.’

  She watched as he closed his eyes in exasperation.

  ‘I don’t know, but what I can tell you is that DCI Flanagan is one of the best police officers I have ever had the good fortune to work with.’

  Flanagan’s skin prickled. She pointed to the door, eyebrows raised, silently asking if Purdy wanted her to leave. Purdy shook his head and pointed to the chair she already sat in.

  ‘That’s as may be, but this is DCI Flanagan’s case, and she will conduct it as she sees fit with no interference from me. If that’s not good enough for you, then feel free to complain to the ACC next time you have a round of golf with him. Have a good day.’

  He slammed the handset into its cradle and said, ‘Fucking prick.’

  ‘Allison?’ Flanagan asked, even though she knew the answer.

  ‘Yep,’ Purdy said, leaning back in his chair. He took off his glasses, tossed them onto the desk, and rubbed his eyes. ‘Was I a little abrupt with him?’

  ‘A little,’ Flanagan said.

  ‘Good. If he thinks being on the Policing Board means he can start telling me my job, he’s got another think coming. He tries that shit again, I’ll bury my boot up his hole.’

  Flanagan smiled, partly at the image, partly at the knowledge that Purdy had stood his ground for her. He was a good man. She had spent much of her career working under his command, and although those years weren’t without friction – they had both made mistakes they regretted – he had been as good a mentor as she could have wished for. She would miss him when he retired.

  Not long now. Boxes were stacked against one wall of the office, his personal items packed in one pile, paperwork filling the rest. A man’s career wrapped up and ready to be taken away.

  ‘So, what’s the deal with this suicide?’ Purdy asked. ‘Are you near ready to close it up?’

  Flanagan took a breath and said, ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Explain,’ he said as he reached for his glasses.

  ‘It’s probably a suicide,’ Flanagan said. ‘Everything’s pointing that way. More than likely, once we’ve got the coroner’s report, I’ll close the investigation and leave it to the inquest.’

  Purdy tapped the leg of his spectacles against his teeth. ‘But?’

  ‘But I’m not sure. Not a hundred per cent.’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’

  ‘Something doesn’t feel right.’ Purdy went to speak, but Flanagan raised her hand. ‘No, let me finish. I know I need more than a feeling to go on, you don’t need to tell me that, but there are details that don’t add up.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The photographs.’

  Flanagan explained the arrangement of the photo frames around the corpse, how they faced away, how Mr Garrick couldn’t see his loved ones as he slipped into the dark. She told him of the conversation she’d had with the nurse, how she’d said Mr Garrick had been in good spirits right up to the end.

  ‘That’s pretty flimsy,’ Purdy said. He rested his chin in his hand and blew air out through his lips. ‘Do you need a calculator?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Well, you’re adding two and two and coming up with Christ knows what.’

  ‘We won’t have the coroner’s report for a day or two yet, Murray’s still working on the laptop and iPad, the DCs are still doorstepping in the village, and the body won’t be released until the end of the week. I’ve got a few days to dig a little deeper.’

  ‘All right,’ Purdy said. ‘But go easy. Remember, there’s a bereaved woman at the centre of this. Don’t cause her any more hardship than you absolutely have to. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ Flanagan said.

  An email from DS Murray awaited Flanagan when she returned to her office. A preliminary examination of the laptop found in Mr Garrick’s room showed searches ov
er several weeks for lethal doses of morphine. The cookies stored on the machine showed that whoever made the searches had been logged into Mr Garrick’s Google account. There was more information to be gleaned from the computer, but these searches had been what they were primarily looking for. Everything that built towards a suicide, anything that showed intent or planning.

  ‘It’s a suicide,’ Flanagan said aloud to herself. ‘Admit it’s a suicide and let it go.’

  Problems, Reverend Peter McKay had said. Addiction.

  Even so, she logged into her computer and opened the interface for the ViSOR database. She entered the names B-A-I-L-E-Y and R-O-B-E-R-T-A, narrowed the region to Northern Ireland. One result. Flanagan clicked on the name, and the record appeared.

  A different woman entirely, this one forty-seven years old, a haggard face, a history of minor assaults and public order offences. Now living in a hostel in Newry.

  Flanagan closed the ViSOR interface and opened the DVA database. This time, she entered Roberta Garrick, along with the address of the grand house.

  Roberta Bailey had applied for a provisional driving licence twelve years ago, aged twenty-three, and her full licence six months later. Seven years ago, the surname was changed to Garrick, and the address updated. A few months after that, a speeding offence, and three points. Then another, and another.

  Those cars, Flanagan thought.

  No more points after that. Mrs Garrick’s heavy foot could have earned her a driving ban, but she had apparently learned to slow down. The points had expired by the time the licence was renewed two years ago.

  ‘Who are you?’ Flanagan asked the screen.

  Next, a straight Google search, combinations of the name and social media sites.

  “Roberta+Garrick+Twitter”

  No Twitter account under that name. She didn’t seem the type, anyway.

  “Roberta+Garrick+Facebook”

  Half a dozen matches, three of them in America, one in New Zealand, one in England, and here, at last, Mrs Garrick smiling from the screen. An informal portrait for her profile picture, a glowing white-toothed smile. A little over a hundred friends. A handful of likes, including her church and her husband’s car dealership.

  Flanagan scrolled down through the sparse timeline. Nothing but occasional Bible quotes, and photographs she’d been tagged in, the choir here, the floral society there, and precious little else. Had she no life outside her marriage and the church?

  She clicked the link to look closer at the Likes list. Almost nothing. No music, no films, no books, only a few local businesses and religious groups.

  ‘Just for show,’ Flanagan said aloud. Roberta Garrick had a Facebook account because that’s what people do, not because she wanted one for herself. As artificial as keeping the good towels for guests.

  ‘You’re a work of fiction,’ Flanagan said.

  A nonsensical idea. She scolded herself for allowing the very thought to form in her head. Not everyone wants to use social media, or even knows how. Flanagan had never bothered with any of those websites. Why did she expect Mrs Garrick to have any real presence on them?

  Roberta Garrick has done nothing wrong, Flanagan thought.

  Then why does she bother me so?

  Flanagan decided then that she needed to speak with Roberta Garrick today.

  16

  McKay woke alone, the sheets cool beside him. Roberta had left some time ago.

  He had dreamed of Maggie, as he often did. A year ago, he would have woken with the lingering memory of her, despairing that the dream had not been real, that she was not back here with him, returned from whatever strange journey she had taken. Now, he felt relief that she had not come back from the dead to condemn him for what he’d done, that she would never see who he had become.

  He reached for the framed photograph on the bedside locker, turned it back from the wall. Maggie smiling, pretty as she’d ever been. So pretty he couldn’t stand to look at her for another second. He turned her to face the wall once more.

  McKay checked his watch. Two hours he’d been asleep. He swung his legs out of the bed and reached for his clothes. A few minutes later he descended the stairs, slowly, quietly, feeling like a thief come to rob his own house.

  He found her at the kitchen table, typing on his old Dell laptop. It took a few moments for her to notice him watching from the doorway. Her eyes flashed in fear or anger for an instant, he couldn’t be sure which, before she gave him the faintest of smiles. A few more clicks and keystrokes, then she closed the computer, placed her hands on top of it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ McKay asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Roberta said. ‘Just reading emails.’

  ‘Be careful. They can check that sort of thing these days. See what you’ve been saying, what you’ve been looking at.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing for you to worry about.’

  He was about to ask her if she wanted something to eat when the doorbell rang, startling them both. McKay looked back over his shoulder towards the front door. He exhaled when he saw the now familiar shape.

  ‘Is it Flanagan?’ Roberta asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Tell her to go,’ she said. ‘I’m too distraught to talk.’

  ‘What if she insists?’

  ‘She can’t force me to talk to her unless she arrests me. Tell her she can’t see me.’

  McKay looked from the door to Roberta and back again. The doorbell rang once more. ‘It might look bad. Maybe you should—’

  ‘Just fucking tell her,’ Roberta said, her words cutting the air between them.

  McKay nodded. He was halfway along the hall when he realised he was barefoot, only half dressed. Too late to turn back. She could see him through the frosted glass.

  He reached for the chain lock and slid it into place before he opened the door as far as the chain would allow.

  ‘Inspector Flanagan,’ he said.

  ‘Reverend,’ she said. She looked at the chain. ‘No need for that, is there?’

  He stared back at her through the gap, his mouth opening and closing, searching for a reason to disagree. When he could find none, he smiled and said, ‘Sorry, force of habit. I’ve been robbed twice by bogus callers.’ He slid the lock free, let the chain hang loose. Easing the door open a few inches more, he asked, ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like to speak with Mrs Garrick,’ she said, looking past him into the hall.

  He couldn’t help but follow her gaze to the closed kitchen door. He imagined Roberta on the other side, her ear pressed against the wood.

  ‘No,’ he said, turning back to Flanagan. ‘Not today. She’s really not fit for it.’

  ‘It won’t take long,’ she said. ‘Fifteen, twenty minutes at most.’

  ‘No, she can’t.’

  ‘I will need to speak to Mrs Garrick at some time in the next day or so. If I could get it out of the way now, before the coroner issues the interim death certificate, it’d leave Mrs Garrick to make the arrangements for the funeral.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice firm enough to make his point. ‘So if there’s nothing else I can do for you, I was just going to take a shower.’

  Flanagan’s shoulders fell as she exhaled. ‘All right. But please tell Mrs Garrick I’ll need to speak with her by tomorrow at the latest. You have my number. I’d appreciate it if you called me as soon as Mrs Garrick is ready to talk.’

  ‘I will,’ he said. He watched her walk back to her car, then closed the door.

  Roberta waited in the kitchen, standing by the table. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll have to talk to her some time,’ McKay said. ‘You can’t put her off much longer.’

  ‘I need a shower,’ she said, and walked past him out of the room.

  McKay watched her climb the stairs, heard her enter the bathroom, then running water. Then he went to the table and opened the laptop. The web browser still showed the BBC news article he�
�d read last night. He clicked on the History tab. Only the last few pages he’d browsed. She’d used the private browser window, the computer recording no traces, no history, no cookies.

  She’d been covering her tracks, hiding from him.

  Hiding what?

  That sick feeling again, deep in his stomach. Like the ground shifting beneath his feet.

  I will suffer for this, he thought. I will suffer and I don’t care.

  17

  Flanagan entered the darkened utility room, closed the back door behind her. She passed through the dim kitchen, then out into the hallway. The sound of her footsteps on the wooden floor reverberated in the grand space, rippling through the still air. She froze and listened for a few moments, trapped by the quiet of the house, as if it held its breath, waiting for her to speak.

  Intruder, it would say. Get out. Leave us in peace.

  But I need to know her better, Flanagan would reply, I need to know her secrets.

  She had toured this house the day before, room to room, and saw nothing to shed light on Roberta Garrick. Only the same tasteful shows of wealth Flanagan had already seen and desired for herself.

  The bedroom. If the truth lay anywhere in this house, it would be there. Flanagan climbed the stairs to the double doors, opened them, stepped through. Light in here. Someone had opened the blinds. Either Mrs Garrick or the rector. A few items of clothing lay on the bed, considered for wearing and then discarded.

  Flanagan’s gaze went to the wall above the dresser, the space where the missing picture had been. She walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer. The same portrait of the child, hidden here among the papers and letters. Flanagan lifted a bundle of envelopes and leafed through them. Bank and credit card statements. A car insurance renewal notification. Passports in Mr and Mrs Garrick’s names, both with several years left on them. Medical cards. Reissued birth certificates for both of them, a marriage certificate. And here, kept together, the birth and death certificates for the child, the latter issued in Spain.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  A cry escaped Flanagan’s throat before she could stop it. She turned towards the voice.